Changes
by Spooky Sundae
Summary: After being freed from T-Bag's claws, Seth hopes to finally be left in peace, even if only for a while. Unfortunately, what he doesn't know is that words "free" and "peace" simply don't exist in the prison vocabulary. An alternate universe story, featuring the first two seasons of the show. (Rewrite now up)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hello to all! Yeah... it's been a while. A very long while. I've been going through a bit of a crisis with this story; I wanted to continue it, but at the same time I felt a strong need to rewrite it, as I wasn't entirely happy with some old chapters. And rewriting is a painful task, more so with the real life constantly sabotaging the process.

However, as I've finally got some time off, I'm trying to slowly get back in shape. For anyone who may be awaiting the updates, the following is a rewrite of chapter one. I will be rewriting the story in whole, adding new bits here and there, and cutting out some old ones. Of course, the main plot won't change that much, and you'll probably recognize the outline of all the old chapters as you read.

Well, that's it for now. Tell me how you like the rewrite; I hope it is an improvement. And, as always, big thanks to all my readers – it means so much to have your support.

* * *

><p>Some years ago, my sisters wished for a puppy. For a while, my mother dodged talking about it, probably convinced they would forget it if we ignored them. However, as their persistence grew stronger, mom promised to take us to a kennel for a look around. I would never forget the look of sheer joy that glowed on their faces as they observed each pup with childish curiosity. Even though, deep down, they were most likely aware we couldn't afford to keep a pet anytime soon, they still rejoiced in that short-lived encounter.<p>

On the other hand, I felt somewhat uneasy, wandering about that lone place. Maybe it was my experience, maybe just my general state of mind at the time, but the excited play of the strays still couldn't erase the cold sentiments that came with abandonment, darkness, cages, and the wavering threat of death.

This vague childhood memory crossed my mind as I walked the block of Fox River State Penitentiary with all the other "fish", led by two watchful guards. The older brutes, with numerous evidences of their past incarcerations engraved in scars and gang tattoos, simply strolled in superior ease, occasionally nodding or saluting at the allies behind the bars. I and the others who never got the taste of the life inside shrunk in formation, keeping our heads down and trying our hardest not to draw attention.

Our efforts were in vain, as proven by the near-delirious inmates who shouted and banged at the metal bars with all their might. _Bitch. Whore. I'll tear you. Gut you. Let me show you good time. _I tried to ignore it, not let them get to me, but in reality I felt like I could start crying right there. The entire scenery was like a twisted, sick image of the place my sisters and so many other children found joy and delight in. Adorable pups replaced with their grotesque and revolting counterparts – the rabid beasts living for the day to be fed. And the day has certainly arrived.

I glanced at an opening cell near me, inhabited by some intimidating man and now by a young kid as well, my age or even younger. The kid's body spoke of terror in every single movement and gesture, and the man, at least a head taller than the boy, seemed highly amused by all of it. The guy cornering the kid and caressing his hair was the last I saw of the uncomfortable encounter as our queue moved on, cold bars trapping the boy in what was going to be his fate from now on.

_We'll be fine, you'll see. It'll all be worth it in the end._

The once reassuring words from my former friend suddenly sprung to my attention and I felt nearly hysterical. Yeah. It'll be great, Brian. Especially when you're not the one paying the consequences. When you're not the one forced to live in constant fear for the next eight years. In fact, it may be just fucking amazing, not having to waste away in a maximum security prison.

I sighed in an attempt to calm down. What's done is done. No matter how much I wish for it, I can't take back the time. So I need to focus on the present moment. I need to be sane and alert, now more than ever. If my behavior here were to cause any more trouble and suffering for my mother and sisters, I could never forgive myself. Letting them down again is not an option. For once, I have to man up and take responsibility, stop blaming my fuck-ups on the others. That's not what'll get me on parole, anyway.

"Kid? You okay?"

My cellmate's voice and clanking of the bars as they closed brought me back to the cold reality. I have to keep more attention to my surroundings, damn it. Daydreaming is definitely not a hobby I should take up in here.

I turned to face an elderly man, most likely in his late fifties, staring at me in something like concern. The free man's mentality in me immediately noticed the good intentions of a fatherly figure, but the reasonable me then kicked in, reminding me that I probably shouldn't trust anyone in a level one facility so hastily. So I continued to stand there awkwardly, somewhat conflicted. It probably showed, as the man's face soon relaxed and lit up in compassion.

"I'm Charles. Your first time in, I guess?"

I nodded, still quite unsure what to do or say.

"I know this may not mean a lot, coming from an inmate, but I'm really not someone you should be afraid of. What's your name?"

"Um, Seth. Seth Hoffner", I replied quietly, lowering my possessions to the floor to shake the offered hand before me. It was rough at touch, but unlike the cell bars or the tough grasp of guards, it was also incredibly warm. And in that very brief moment, it made me feel secure.

"Well, Seth, I hope you don't mind taking the upper bunk. These old bones aren't that fit to be climbing up there anymore", he laughed as he settled on a small metal chair. I returned a smile. Honestly, he didn't look anything like the weak grandpa stereotype, but then again I wasn't fit to make any assumptions.

Before making my bed and "unpacking" the few possessions I was allowed, I took one final look at the monsters that were still rioting against the restrains of their cages, perpetually demanding blood and fresh meat. It seemed like something straight out of those fancy post-modern fictions I would never get to read. Except it was all very real, and aimed at me.

"It's scary. What this place does to people", Charles stated, his eyes fixated at the unraveling chaos.

"Yeah", I replied, realizing how sore my throat was. I gulped and tried to block out the noise. It's okay. I've been through a lot, and if I try, I may make it through this, too. People don't come after you unless you give them reason to. If I don't attract attention, if I don't wrong against these men, I should be fine. That's common sense, after all.

"_Hey, fish! FISH! Ya hear me, nigger? Look at me! I'll fuckin' rip ya open!"_

Maddening laughter broke out across the entire wing, spreading like disease throughout the mob. They all chanted despicable threats and slurs at a horrified young inmate until he broke down, shaking and crying on the floor of his cell. Finally, a guard's hoarse voice resounded through the block, threatening the mad mob with a lockdown should they continue. Welcomed silence immediately filled the place, short of few choked sobs from the frightened newcomers.

So much for the common sense theory; wouldn't work in here. In fact, it seemed like nothing merely sane or rational would. It was all one big mess, chaos, and I felt so incredibly weak, being caught in it. With no friends nor allies, no ways to defend myself, was there really any guarantee that I could live through my first week? No. Actually, it'd be a big damn miracle if I didn't end up in a body bag by tomorrow night. Few cared for or grieved the death of the incarcerated.

"_Stop worrying so much. Everything will be fine."_

Yeah, Brian. Bless you and your ingenious mind, because everything will be just fucking _all - _right.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** To avoid confusion, I feel I have to point some things out to new readers – Seth Hoffner is _not_ my OC. He was an actual character from the series, featured in couple of early episodes of season one as T-Bag's 'companion' (you may remember him as "Cherry"). He died in the eighth episode by committing suicide.

This is an alternate universe story, revolving around the idea of his character surviving and then being included in the escape. Also, this is the _second_ attempt on the same story that I've been posting here for the last year or so.

Well, with that cleared up, enjoy the rewrite of the second chapter! Also, feel free to message me should you have any further questions.

* * *

><p><em>Beige's got to be the most terrible choice of wall color. I can't really explain it rationally, but something about that unhealthy, sickly hue just gives me stomach pains. And I was now forced to stare at the repulsive shade in the dim interrogation room for what felt like an infinity. That, combined with the quiet ticking of the clock and the soft tapping of the inspector's fingers against the table, was bound to create the most terrible, overwhelming feeling of nausea.<em>

_In effort to resist it, I tried to focus on something else. My mother's silhouette in my peripheral vision. Her grey, worn-out coat outlined against the light. Faint trace of tears on her wrinkled expression. Red silk scarf wrapped around her ever-thinning hair. I couldn't believe she was still there. Telling the officers how I was a good kid. How I would never harm a fly. Despite all the fucking evidence, she still held on that glimmer of hope that I didn't turn out like the scumbag of my father._

_At that moment, I felt like I should be put to death - if not for the crime against that family, then for the one against my mother. She never deserved any of this. The woman who supported us with love, care, and strength through the roughest times was now in desperate need of the same, and there I was, putting her through another ride to hell yet again. No, I wasn't anything like my father – I was a hundred times worse. He might've been a pathetic, worthless coward for abandoning us, but I was officially a whole new low – a criminal. And that stain would be attached to her name all her life._

_The inspector let out a tired sigh, bringing me back from my inner battlefield to the real one. One glimpse of his weary visage was more than enough to tell me that he was finally fed up with the complete lack of cooperation on my part._

"_Still nothin' from you, Mr. Hoffner?" he more stated than questioned, fiddling with a pen in his hand. I looked down, not willing to keep an eye contact. I knew he was reading me like an open book and it made me feel so vulnerable and hopeless. It was like my fate had already been sealed in his eyes._

"_You know, I've seen plenty of these cases in my time. Couple o' clueless kids, stumbling upon an opportunity for easy cash", he smiled knowledgably, with no real humor to his words._

"_But then, along the line, something goes wrong. People get hurt. Innocent people, Mr. Hoffner."_

_His voice was bitter and heavy, but I deserved no better. The problem was, it all sounded so simple, when Brian was talking about it. Steal couple of cars, sell the parts, get the money. I get enough to buy my mother the much needed medicine, and Brian pays off his father's piled-up debts. No obstacles, no trouble, no people hurt. It wasn't supposed to come to this. That little girl wasn't supposed to be in the car. But musing on what should or shouldn't have been was utterly pointless at the moment._

"_One of you's gonna talk, you know", he warned, "That's the one that's getting outta here on probation, kid. And the other – well – the other's gonna be facing court action."_

_I gulped, the content of my stomach threatening to come right up. No. He's only trying to scare me. I've known Brian all my life, damn it. If there was one thing I knew for sure in that whole madness, it was that Brian wouldn't talk. He wouldn't betray me, wouldn't throw me to the wolves, precisely because he could be sure I would never do the same. _

"_Lemme tell you something, son – the jury, they're one tough bunch. Ain't gonna go easy on a kidnapper", he continued, "If you don't talk now, I guarantee you'll be seeing the inside of a prison cell – in a maximum security, that is."_

"_Stop it. Just stop it, now." I turned abruptly at the sound of my mother's quiet pleas. They were not addressing anyone in particular, but rather voicing the utter despair of a dying woman. She looked so tortured and worn out I was afraid she might breathe her last right in that sickly room. I must really be one sick bastard to be able to put her through this hell._

"_Ma'am, I don't wanna upset you, but the truth ain't always pretty", he said, taking the pleas were directed at him, "Besides, your kid's gonna-"_

_Sudden screeching of the door interrupted his speech. His partner stood at the doorway, giving him a short nod as she walked into the dim light of the interrogation room. _"_It's over. The kid talked."_

_I couldn't speak. I couldn't even move. Later, I distantly recalled the officers cuffing my hands and leading me out, but at that very moment it all felt as an out-of-body experience. The only thing going through my head was how wrong I was – about the goddamn plan, about my best friend, about myself. _

_Still, at the doorway, I managed to regain just enough strength to turn around and take one last look at my mother. In her glistening grey eyes, I saw an emotion I never did before, and only much later realized it had been nothing else but utter shame._

* * *

><p>As expected, I got no rest on my first night in. The quiet hours were mostly filled with nightmares and sleepless intervals and the buzzer came way too soon. We stepped into the usual routine – count, showers, breakfast. Though I felt weary, I still tried my best to stay cautious and alert. I dared not even look at anyone directly for the fear of unintentionally triggering a conflict. After witnessing that outbreak of madness the day before, I knew it wouldn't take a lot get the monsters riled up.<p>

I was more than glad to meet up with Charles once more during breakfast. God knew I could use some trusted company after the nerve-racking first experience of prison showers. Although guards made sure no one actually advanced beyond few leers and smirks, being naked in the presence of the men who shouted such horrific threats just the day before made me feel anything but secure or relieved.

Charles didn't seem to mind me joining in, as he was preoccupied with trying to feed his cat. The furry animal gave both of us a good laugh that morning when she greeted me by running right under my legs while I was washing up. To say I was shell-shocked would be a tremendous understatement.

"What was her name, again?" I asked as I carefully petted her on the head, earning a quiet purr.

"It's Marilyn", Charles replied, trying to persuade her to eat a chunk of some unidentified meat we were served for breakfast, but to no avail. I couldn't blame her, though – I barely got myself to take few tiny bites. The messy mixture on my tray kind of reminded me of my school lunches. It was quite depressing, realizing my sisters were now being fed the same rubbish as the very scum of our society.

Rather than focusing on the food, I tried to make small talk with Charles, "So, um, I didn't think they allowed for pets in here. How come they let you keep her?"

"Eh, that's something called earned trust, kid - years without spot on my record", he replied and chuckled once he saw my expression, "Wouldn't hope for privileges yet if I were you, though."

I realized I must have looked somewhat eager, and I tried to brush it off with a smile. My only hopes for the moment were to live to my parole, and possibly reach it with all my limbs and organs still in place and functioning. It was a long shot, though, and I was well aware of that.

* * *

><p>Prisoners were allowed few hours of yard time each day. Most looked forward to the rare opportunity to stretch their legs, but for us newcomers they represented nothing but hours of anxiety, as we were practically open for attacks from any side. So I stuck to my usual behavior, which served me well enough – don't look at anyone, don't hold your head high, keep near someone you trust.<p>

Charles was proving to be something of a 'dream cellmate' thus far. I felt silly, thinking of the phrase, but how else do you describe the guy in a maximum security prison who isn't insane, doesn't make unwanted advances, and doesn't mind you constantly following him? I was dealt a damn good hand – true, definitely better than I deserved after what I'd done, but I was way too giddy about my fortune at the moment to let self-pity overtake me.

For a while, I strolled alongside him, taking in a brief lesson on the workings of the system. Inmates separated amongst themselves by race, which was clear to see in all realms of prison life. It was a plain ignorant thing to do, but as my opinion didn't mean shit in there, I knew better than to challenge the false morality of murderers.

Various gangs fought for dominance, which often resulted in yet another pointless thing I probably shouldn't challenge – race riots. They were brutal and bloody, and few survived with no scarring, whether that of physical or mental kind. And since corrupted guards and gang leaders did the job that warden only did on papers – that of running the place – much bloodshed between inmates was often turned a blind eye to.

Charles briefly stopped his mostly-monologue to return a friendly nod and a smile at a tall, confident-looking inmate passing by us. I gave him a puzzled look and he explained quickly, "Michael Scofield – a very bright and interesting young man."

"Can never tell what he's really up to", he continued, looking consumed with thought, "I still can't figure out how someone like him ended up here. A very interesting person, indeed…"

We stood there awkwardly for couple of seconds, until Marilyn's curiosity brought Charles back from whatever inner musing he'd had going on. She'd noticed a bee buzzing and before you knew it, she was out of Charles' arms trying to catch it. He tried calling after her a few times, but apparently the flying object making fun sounds was way more fascinating than her owner at the moment.

"Don't worry, she does this all the time", he explained apologetically, "Wait here for a second, I'll go get her."

I smiled, following them with my gaze for a while before choosing to wait by the nearby fence. The weather had been nice whole day. The phrase "calm before the storm" immediately crossed my mind, but I shook it off. The last thing I needed was for my commitment to staying alert to turn into paranoia.

As if reading my trail of thoughts, a genuinely deep, disturbing voice soon sounded behind me, "See somethin' interesting over there?"

I jumped in surprise, turning around to find a mountain of a man hovering over me. A knot of fear formed in my throat, but I found it hard to even come up with any sort of response, let alone voice it. Though I tried my hardest not to let my panic become apparent, I still predictably failed in that intention. The man leaned a bit closer, smirking in amusement at my obvious discomfort.

"Don't be scared, I ain't here to hurt ya. Well, at least not if you play along."

Although my mind was screaming for me to run, my body froze in place and I found myself unable to escape the man as he approached me. Unfortunately for me, I often found fright to be more compelling than both fight and flight.

"Hey! Let the kid go."

My tormentor seemed to recognize the voice as he turned his attention to a small group of men behind his back. I was afraid he might just disregard them, seeing he could've easily taken all three down in a notch if he wanted to. To my surprise and relief, he merely grinned as he raised his hands in defeat and slowly backed away. Once he was out of sight, I took a deep breath and tried to calm my racing mind.

"You okay, boy?"

With danger temporarily gone, I turned to face my 'helper'. I reluctantly accepted his outstretched hand, unsure of his intentions. For all I knew, he might as well be just another attacker. He snickered at my hesitance and I looked away, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

"I'm Trokey. And you ain't got to worry about me or my men; we're just here to help the brother out", he claimed, a sleazy smile plastered across his face. Yeah – somehow, I'm not convinced. His presence was way more unnerving than it was in any way calming.

"Look, I know you're new, but you'll see soon enough that we whites gotta stick together in here", he continued, "When we don't, we're easy targets. You saw it right now with that rughead, didn't ya?"

I stared at him, silent. I didn't care for his racist blabbering, but I didn't wish to confront him. If he was able to scare away the guy at least twice his size with few words, either he or his gang had some influence in here. How great, that I didn't know, but I was nevertheless disadvantaged by having absolutely none whatsoever.

Once he noticed Charles approaching us, he smirked and signaled for his cronies to back away. "If those niggers give you trouble again, just come and find us. We'll protect you", he leaned in to whisper before finally following the other two. I barely got enough time to sigh in relief when Charles materialized right next to me. I smiled upon noticing Marilyn was resting safely in his arms, but his face was solemn as his gaze followed Trokey and his friends.

"There are plenty of people you should avoid in here, Seth", he said gravely, "but the Alliance – they're one of those that definitely make the top."

I looked at him, somewhat confused. "You mean Trokey? If so, I don't care for him – he's the one who came to _me_." Charles shook his head. "Trokey's just a backer", he explained, "A second in command for T-Bag; or Theodore Bagwell, if you will."

His voice was low and careful, but the name meant nothing to me. "You haven't heard of him?" he said, looking fairly surprised, "That monster killed and raped six children back in Alabama. He runs the Alliance for Purity in here – a group of white supremacists."

My stomach turned upon hearing that. On my first day, I nearly got raped and affiliated with the Hitler Youth. Couldn't get any better. And to think that some minutes ago I was so delighted about my supposed fortune – I must have cursed myself.

"Very powerful. Very brutal, too", Charles continued, "You don't want to get on their bad side, trust me. Maybe even less on their good side. They have their ways to lure you. I've seen it happen before, with many young men, and it would always end in worst ways possible."

At that moment, I felt so hopelessly weak. I knew there existed terrible, gruesome people in the world, but that fact always seemed so distant and unreal… until now. Now, that I was locked up with this T-Bag and so many more ill minds, and I could do nothing to defend myself if they tried to attack me.

"This guy, T-Bag – where's he now?"

"Infirmary. Word is that John Abruzzi, the mob boss, got him sent there", he answered calmly, "He's one of few men in here who can threaten that animal and outlive it."

He set to say something else before he was interrupted by a loud buzzer, telling us it was time to get back to our cells. We obediently filed in a queue and waited for the guards to lead us in. Once there, I collapsed on my bunk with a heavy sigh. It was only my first day, and I already felt drained and exhausted by the experience. Obviously, I was off to a good start. I soon became consumed with thoughts and memories and it didn't take me long to begin drifting into sleep.

However, a loud scream resounded before that could happen, effectively ending my temporary serenity.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** New chapter, new troubles for Seth. Would've posted this before, but I had some problems with Internet access during most of my vacation. Do tell me how you like the update, anyway!

* * *

><p>I instantly jumped from my bunk to join Charles, who was already watching the show from the bars. I say show, because it literally was that – bunch of guards trying to drag away one seriously deranged inmate who was screaming something about a "path to hell". This set off a chain reaction among other prisoners, who gladly followed the example by cheering him on and banging their fists against the bars. I was beginning to think this was what they considered a valid response to anything.<p>

The man I recognized as Michael Scofield walked out of the cell with caution as his attentive gaze followed his cellmate. There was a ripple of blood painting his otherwise stern expression. As he patiently waited to be escorted to the infirmary, I tried to put the puzzle together in what seemed to be the most obvious and logical solution. A madman, a sane man, and a closed cell – it wasn't exactly rocket science. Or at least it didn't seem like one at the time.

"Who the hell was that guy?" I asked Charles, curiosity building.

"Charles Patoshik, or 'Haywire', as they call him", he answered, "They brought him in here from the Asylum. Doctors thought he was ready to interact with other cons."

"Yeah, real ready", I scoffed, not moving my eyes from their cell, "Why do you think he would do that to Michael, anyway?"

In my mind, the question seemed genuine, as Scofield didn't look like someone who would deliberately provoke the mentally ill. However, the reaction I got from Charles was a strange glare that indicated something of perplexity. "Actually, he wouldn't. That's the strange part."

I glared at him in confusion. I had to admit I was not catching up.

"I saw what happened in their cell. Haywire never touched Michael", he admitted, "Michael was the one who hit his head against the bars – Haywire actually tried to stop him."

I glared at him in disbelief, trying to figure whether he was playing a joke on me or not. However, his expression was serious, and the realization left me dumbfounded – why would anyone do that? I could hardly believe Scofield was a madman like Haywire. I knew looks could be deceiving, but I thought I would be able to see through some pretty obvious body language, like that always calm and stoic visage of his. What seemed more logical was that Charles had simply jumped to a wrong conclusion.

"That sounds insane. Why would he do that?" I asked, seeking some more plausible explanation. There was a brief pause on his part, and he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. He picked up Marilyn, who was yawning lazily by his legs, and uttered the same cryptic sentence from before.

"As I said, you can never really tell what Michael's up to."

With that he ended the conversation and left me to my own thoughts as he sat down to caress his cat. His words replayed in my mind a few times, and I decided to take a quick look at the development of the situation. Commotion was now over and a guard walked up to Scofield, probably to take him to the doc. However, just before he was lead out of his cell, I caught a sight of a barely noticeable, mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

As if he was pleased with how things turned out. Almost as if… they were going according to the plan.

I shook my head in disbelief, and maybe in just a hint of amazement. Scofield really was a curious guy.

* * *

><p>Weary prison routine and perennial worries soon quashed my initial curiosity about the Scofield case. Visitations were coming soon, but I doubted my mother would show up. Probably for better, though. Apart from the tales of constant anxiety, we didn't have much to talk about. Besides, I wasn't ready to face her, definitely not yet. Trauma left by the trial was still fresh and it had stung my memory like nothing before. I pushed it back for as long as I could, but it was now coming back with vengeance, torturing me through nightmares.<p>

I tried repeating to myself that was what I deserved. It might seem unjust, but it was the truth, and that was the only thing that kept me from going berserk after waking from yet another sleep fiasco.

Trokey was another issue hanging over my head. Count, showers, breakfast, cell. I swear I could feel his eyes on my back all that morning. Following my every step. Taking in my every move. But whenever I would take a risk of turning around to look, he would be somewhere in the background. Talking to his cronies, attending to some meaningless business – none of these innocent acts gave the impression that he was busy observing me. And more often, he wouldn't even be there. Maybe the prison life was taking its toll on my nerves already.

In effort to ignore Trokey's presence as we returned to the block, I caught a glimpse of a young man following Scofield to his cell. They seemed to be on friendly terms, and I felt curiosity growing again.

"Who's Michael's new cellmate?" I asked Charles and he lifted his gaze.

"That's Fernando Sucre. They were actually cellies before", he replied, not taking his eyes off their cell, "I'm guessing they put them back together, seeing Haywire isn't coming back anytime soon."

I nodded slowly as I felt the whole picture suddenly clearing up. I chuckled and shook my head at the realization. The situation was so simple and obvious it was almost unnerving it took me so long to figure it out. I noticed Charles' questioning look, and I tried to explain, "I was just thinking – what if Michael hurt his head, knowing he could easily blame that on Haywire, to get his old cellmate back? While I don't know Sucre, I'm pretty sure he makes for better company than a madman."

Charles nodded, suspicion still glowing in his eyes, "I thought the same thing, but I don't think Michael only did that because he didn't like Haywire's company. Knowing him, he definitely had something else – something bigger in mind."

He spoke with a seriousness that made me laugh a little. Charles noticed this and gave a small smile on his own. "I know, it's probably just my mumbling", he responded, "I just can't forget what he told me on his first day here. It sounded like a joke back then. But all of this makes me wonder…"

I tried to make some sense of his words, but to no avail. Granted, I didn't know Scofield as well as he did. After a moment of silence, he smirked and resigned, "As I said – it's probably just nonsense." Not that interested in pushing the matter further, I simply shrugged and climbed to my bunk to relax.

That afternoon, Charles was taken to the infirmary for a check-up. When yard time was announced, I was contemplating whether or not I should even get out of my cell. In the end, I figured I would be much easier target sitting there all by myself than when surrounded by other cons, with guards at every corner and tower.

Most groups already occupied the obvious places such as the benches and the hoops. Meddling with them was not exactly my top priority, so I settled for sitting at an empty chess table by my lonesome. Playing around with the pieces, I smiled softly as one kind memory crept its way into my mind.

"_You're cheating, Seth! Cheating, cheating! You hid that horsey figure, I saw you!"_

_Freckles on Amy's face burned with childish red, all the way from her small ears to the perky nose. She blew a lock of her light brown hair from her eyes with unusual vigor, as to emphasize her frustration with my unfair ways. That was my sister – a rebellious spirit caught in the body of a fifth grader. I couldn't help but to chuckle as her face grew redder with each second._

"_I was just giving you a taste of your own medicine", I replied, "See now how that feels?"_

_She stuck her nose up, looking offended with the implication. "I wasn't cheating! Hannah moved that piece before. Right, sis?"_

_Her gaze fell on the small figure of a girl playing with a cheap imitation of Lego's. Best we could've afforded, but she wasn't complaining – she never did. Once Hannah noticed her sister's eyes seeking approval, she nodded with unquestionable certainty. I scoffed, determined to tease a bit more._

"_Oh, please, that's nonsense. Besides, she wasn't even here during our last match."_

"_I have magical powers!" the younger girl stated with utter gravity, "I can move things with my mind, even when I'm not looking at them." The actual serious, humorless expression on her face made me burst into laughter. As expected, they were not pleased._

"_He's mocking your magical powers!" Amy said, turning to her sister for support, "Let's punish him!"_

"_Do we make him walk on Lego's?"_

"_No, even worse", Amy responded, her bright eyes glowing with mischief, "We tickle him."_

"_Oh, no! Anything but tickling!" I exclaimed, finding it hard to go along with the game while practically choking with laughter. Of course, being the kids they were, they completely disregarded my pleas and began their 'attack' with newfound enthusiasm. After a while of childish laughter and joyful tears, I somehow managed to wrestle my way out of the cluster and catch them in tight grip._

"_Gotcha", I exclaimed victoriously. With laughter slowly fading, we returned to our game in silence._

"_Seth?"_

"_Hm?"_

"_Where's mommy? Shouldn't she be home by now?"_

_I lifted my eyes from the chessboard to be met with a worried, almost anxious gaze. The kind of gaze that didn't belong in the eyes of a child, but that I was nevertheless seeing over and over again. I sighed. Ruthless reality usually crashed all my attempts to distract them from the very thing. It was frustrating, but not worth fretting about – there was nothing I could really do about it, anyway._

"_I told you, Amy, she's working", the rehearsed response slid off my lips with an irritating ease._

_With a subdued 'oh' she nodded, listlessly playing around with the pieces. Suddenly, Hannah dropped her half-finished Lego car to give me a warm hug. I returned it the best I could. I always did._

"_Will mommy be here to read us a bedtime story?" she questioned quietly, her voice almost cracking. I smiled reassuringly while planting a soft kiss on her forehead._

"_Maybe, Hannah", I lied, "Maybe."_

I sighed, my eyes roaming about the yard. Still not able to spot Charles, I decided he must've gone back to our cell. As I was busy returning the scattered pieces to their initial positions, I barely noticed the threatening shade looming over me. When I did, though, it was too late to make myself scarce.

"Nice seeing you again, kid."

The firm pat on my back made me jump and mocking laughter followed as a reaction. Somehow, I suppressed the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes as Trokey settled opposite me at the table, his goons surrounding me. I kept silent, hoping my lack of response to their taunting would make them leave. Unfortunately, Trokey didn't share my sentiments.

"Have you thought about that offer?" he asked, fiddling with the pieces.

"What offer?" I played dumb.

His stare was intent and he spoke slowly, as if taking me for an idiot. "The protection. Joining me and my boys over here. What you say?" I stared back for a while, before uttering a brief, cold response.

"No, thanks."

He frowned, looking fairly surprised. I didn't care. I wasn't going to fall for false promises. And I sure as hell didn't want to end up like those other kids Charles had mentioned.

"Boy, remember what that rughead tried to do to you the other day", he warned, "Now imagine what it'd be like in a riot. A weak white fish like yourself, with no protection – you may as well hang a target around your neck."

I'd like to say I wasn't afraid. For whatever reason, race meant a lot in this place. I could call it whatever I wanted – ignorant, racist, bigoted – it wouldn't change the state of things. Dare to challenge it in any way, you'd go down for it. Still, something in me rebelled. No matter what the cold truth was, I still didn't want to be associated with these sickos. Besides, as Charles had said – getting on their good side would be just as bad, if not worse, than getting on their bad one.

"I'll take my chances", I said with a hoarse voice. I felt his eyes studying me for a while, but I didn't dare look at him. I only lifted my gaze when he finally stood up, his low voice ending the uncomfortable silence.

"I see. So that's how it's gonna be."

That was not a statement. It was a threat of what was to happen. I had stepped out of line, and there were consequences to pay. Swallowing bile stuck in my throat, I cringed as I suddenly felt one of his goons' breath on my ear.

"We'll see you around, kid. After all, you've got nowhere to run."

* * *

><p>Happy hour was soon over and we returned to the block. My face lit up a little once I noticed Charles standing in front of our cell, with Marilyn tucked in his arms. Just as I was about to enter the cell, my arm got caught in a rough grip. I turned to face a large guard. "B. Bellick" shone on his name tag.<p>

"Slow it down, Hoffner."

Almost as a reflex action, I apologized, "I'm sorry, Sir. Did something happen?"

"What happened is you've got a cell transfer", he said, "Go and get your stuff now, I ain't got the whole day."

The instant I heard it, my mouth went dry. If there weren't for Charles, I would've probably remained there, completely unresponsive, with Bellick shouting at me to move it. "Come on, kid." Charles' voice was not in the least friendly; it was authoritative. That was the slap I needed to return to reality.

As I was tugging the sheets off my bed, the only thing I could hear were Trokey's and his goon's threats. _That's how it's gonna be. You've got nowhere to run. _A single shudder ran up my spine and I looked at Charles. I held my gaze for a moment, not even sure myself what I was seeking. Probably some relief for the dread I felt. He must've sensed it, as this was his response, "Well, cons get transferred a lot around here. With the system always overcrowded, that is."

His tone sounded with experience. With the knowledge of what had happened to those who meddled with the Alliance, more precisely. Still, we managed to exchange weak goodbye smiles as I picked up my gear to meet with Bellick again. He led me to the cell 16, only couple of feet away from Charles'.

I frowned in confusion. I don't exactly know what I expected. To be celled with Trokey, one of his goons perhaps, or in a worse scenario, some of the Alliance's enemies. However, what I certainly did not expect was to find a hauntingly empty cell gaping at me. Suspicion now replaced confusion.

"Um, Sir? Am I really going to be alone in here?"

Bellick raised his brow and snickered. "Don't flatter yourself, kid. T-Bag's in the infirmary now, but I'm sure he'll give you a warm welcome once he gets back."

He left with a taunting smirk playing on his meaty lips. My eyes grew big in shock, and it took a while for the realization to hit me. I was being celled with the most hateful, and probably the most hated con in the whole of Fox River. In my mind, I was as good as dead. There was absolutely no chance someone like me, with no connections, allies, or even street smarts, could cross that man and survive it. Things like that didn't happen in prison. That animal would be the end of me.

Exhausted, I lay on the bunk and tried to pull myself together. Fat chance of that. Anxiety of what was to come overlapped with the dreaded memories of the past, making me borderline nauseous. Overcome with emotion, I soon found myself being tucked in by my own fears and frustration.

* * *

><p>Loud buzzer was my wake-up call, noting it was time for yet another routine count. Still groggy from the short rest, I rinsed my face with cool water and stepped out on the line. I looked at Charles, who's been eyeing me worriedly, and managed to give him a small smile. It was supposed to be reassuring, but I doubt I succeeded in that – I wasn't even able to reassure myself yet.<p>

A commotion on the second level then drew my attention. Few COs were standing by Scofield's cell, questioning his cellmate Sucre on something. Even from my distance, the guy looked downright terrified. Apparently, he failed to deliver whatever information they needed, as they seemed to grow angrier with each second. No sooner had I realized Scofield wasn't in the cell than a buzzer sounded.

_Lockdown! All the inmates, back to their cells!_

Doing as I was told, I wondered what could've happened to cause such a sudden reaction. I needn't have wondered for long, nor did any other cons – our answer was soon delivered in the form of a furious guard yelling into his radio, "We've got an inmate on the run, I repeat – an inmate on the run!"

That worked like a chaos-call. The whole block went berserk in an instant, shouting and throwing rolls of toilet paper out their cells. I, on the other hand, still remained motionless by the bars. The conversation I had had with Charles that morning now rang in my head. How suspicious he had been of Michael's intentions. Could he have been right? Has Michael been planning on this the whole time?

As I stood there, with entire prison on their feet, rioting like mad, guards running around restlessly, and the sound of alarm overlapping with my own heartbeat, I couldn't help but to feel something of a wild excitement building inside me.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay! Been having trouble coming up with the new plot, but I think I've got it pretty much figured now. Anyway, enjoy the new old chapter four, lol.

* * *

><p>I woke up with my head throbbing painfully. The block was dim and quiet. There were probably a couple of hours left till the buzzer sounded, but I doubted I would be able to sleep through them. My thoughts were all jumbled, and the hard mattress wasn't helping any with alleviating stress. It seemed I'd just have to suck it up for the day. Nothing new there. I could at least try to rest for a while now.<p>

But whenever I tried closing my eyes, I found myself feeling strangely empty. There was no escape. That was the single thought that seemed to circulate through my mind. Michael returning to his cell. The rave quietening. Guards were as pissed off as ever, but since the whole thing was apparently a huge misunderstanding originating from the warden Pope himself, there wasn't much they could do about it. Something of the kind was to be expected, of course, so why did I feel this way?

Actually, I would say my subconscious already had the answer. For once the block fell silent and dark, the whole excitement that was brought on by the adrenaline rush soon faded and left me with all my old worries and fears. The shame I brought on my family, the still fresh memory of the trial, and now the whole new development with Trokey and T-Bag.

Surprisingly enough, I managed to doze off for an hour or two. When the wake-up call sounded, I almost fell off my bunk out of shock. I felt groggy and restless as dizziness started replacing headache. I washed up and got dressed quickly, silently hoping to see Charles again at breakfast.

My wish was granted – he was sitting by the usual table, and invited me to join him. I sat down, not missing the expression of worry crossing his face. I gave him a meek smile, but he didn't return it.

"Do you know who they've put you in with?"

The fake smile on my face immediately faded, and I dropped my head. I nodded. Long silence ensued. I felt him glaring at me, but I didn't want to face his apologetic expression. Both he and I were well aware there wasn't much that could be done on his part. Not that I would want someone to jeopardize their well-being for me, anyway. I brought enough trouble on the unsuspecting as it is.

I continued playing around with the oatmeal on my tray, probably out of hope of finding some silly distraction in that. However, the burnt odor of the unappetizing mixture did nothing but increase the already strong feeling of sickness. Swallowing bile in my throat, I slowly pushed the tray away.

"Did you meddle with them? The Alliance?" Charles asked under his voice after a while. I shook my head. "No… not exactly. They tried to make me join them. I refused." Charles nodded knowledgeably. "They probably greased Bellick's palm well to transfer you", he said, leaning in as he noticed Trokey and the gang settling by a nearby table, "I already told you – COs are the worst gang that's ever walked this place."

I glanced at Trokey, who turned around and winked in my direction. His goons immediately started snickering. I pushed down a sigh and lowered my gaze again. The overwhelming need to confront them was burning inside me, but I managed to suppress it with reason. I knew I wouldn't live two seconds dared I defy them again. Charles looked thoughtful.

"Talking to the guards won't get you far. Even though some may want to help, in the end, they'd all have to answer to Bellick", he said, "If I were you, I'd try to get it to Pope. Maybe through the doc – she usually helps with this kind of stuff. They might get you to the AdSeg."

I kept fiddling with my fingers. Administrative segregation. In prisons, privileges were already hugely restricted, but in the AdSeg you virtually had none. Can't say that was a captivating idea, but if it was the only way to get out of this mess, I'd take it. Besides, Charles had much more experience with this; if he thought it was the best option out there, I saw no reason not to trust him.

Only, I needed a good argument to even get recommended. And I'd imagine vague implications of threat weren't that much to go on in here. Still, I retrieved my tray and thanked Charles for the advice. Ignoring the unpleasant aftertaste of the mixture, I forced myself to suppress the sickness and push down what I could.

* * *

><p>I paced the cell restlessly, trying to come up with a plausible excuse that could get me to the doc. Unfortunately, as fruitless contemplating filled the passing minutes, it became apparent that was a scheme destined to fail. Anxiety and despair inevitably overtook my senses. My palms were sweating and my heart threatened to jump out of my rib cage. On occasions, I would take a careful step outside the cell to observe the hasty guards. But finding a trustworthy CO was still nothing. At the doc's, I would need to present real evidence, of which I had none, and names, which I dared not bring up.<p>

I sat on the small metal chair, grabbing at my head. It was frustrating to think that the confrontation with T-Bag was most likely inescapable. Frustrating and terrifying. I had no idea how to deal with people like him. I had no idea what he would want with me. And, as it would seem, I had no safe ways of escaping the situation either. No matter how you looked at it, I was screwed.

As I pondered over my confused thoughts, a COs distant voice reached my ears.

"_Theodore Bagwell, a transfer back from the infirmary."_

Once the realization hit me, I froze in place. No. He couldn't be back already, it just couldn't be true. But before I even had a chance to take any sort of meaningful action, Trokey's familiar mocking tone sounded near the cell. "So, we got you a little… get-well gift."

That instant, he and his goons appeared at the cell door, along with the unfamiliar man I assumed was the famed T-Bag. His pale face was colored with a number of fading bruises. In a moment of disorientation due to the fear, I accidently caught his malice-filled glance. He grinned, unfazed. "Aw. It's just the right size."

The gang burst into laughter and I lowered my gaze, feeling weak and vulnerable. I kept my stare at the floor as I heard T-Bag dismissing his cronies and something inside me just sunk. There came the moment I feared the most – having to deal with this psychopath all by myself. The guy shuffled into the cell and at that point, I was too scared to even move a limb, let alone look at him. The cell was unnervingly quiet, but after a short wait he finally spoke. "What's your name?"

"S-Seth", I stuttered almost inaudibly, taken aback by the calmness of his voice. That wasn't the voice of a rapist or a murderer. There was no trace of that taunting drawl from before, either. In fact, the tone was almost friendly, and that was agitating to say the least.

"Hm. You new, Seth?" I nodded without hesitation.

"Scared?"

I barely held my composure. The question was so pointless and ironic that I felt like either bursting into tears or laughter. I was locked up with a serial killer in a six-by-eight room, left completely at his mercy. Right, why should I be scared? Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach.

"Look at me, boy", he demanded without raising his voice. I gathered the courage to look up, meeting T-Bag eye-to-eye. A sick smirk played on his thin lips and his dark eyes glowed with amusement, contrasting his composed tone. He's been enjoying every second of this.

It wasn't his overall looks that felt threatening. He wasn't particularly tall, or muscular, and unlike most other inmates, he held no apparent marks of belonging in a gang. In fact, if it weren't for his prison-issued outfit, he wouldn't look much different than any average middle-class white guy you may stumble upon on your way to work. Wouldn't look like a threat to the society in any way, if it weren't for that hungry look in his eyes and the nasty smirk, giving his demeanor a whole new quality of creepy. They say little things give people away – well, in his case, that was definitely true.

He studied me for a while and I wasn't sure where to look. It honestly felt as if he was dissecting me with his eyes. I was hopeless and scared to death in anticipation of his next move. He probably noticed this, as he soon said, "You've probably heard stories about me."

He stared at me intently. I realized he was waiting for me to agree, so I nodded fearfully. Again he smirked, this time in very apparent gloating. "Well, they're not all true."

Was that supposed to be comforting? Before I could figure out the answer, he reached into his pocket. I backed away; scared for a moment he might pull out a shank or a blade. However, he simply twisted out the white fabric of the pocket. I felt taken aback by that, but said nothing.

"What do you say we go for a walk, hm?"

I glanced at him carefully. He just gave me the same obnoxious smirk that I swear would haunt me for life and continued fiddling with the worn-out cloth. I didn't understand what it meant, or what he wanted, but one thing was for sure – it wouldn't end up well. It never does, not with T-Bag.


End file.
